And we still have no idea what a foot muff is for...

Who knew there were so many bloody makes of pram? Each with different terminology so you need a degree accredited by flaming Mothercare just to enter the store and be allowed to look at the displays. My mind has been spinning all the live long day. Strollers? 2-in1 prams? Travel systems? 3-wheelers? Tandems? (Actually - I think tandem is one we can safely cross off the list, since we know there is only one wriggler in there. At least I hope we can cross it off.) It really a minefield out there.

We've been into at least five separate shops - sometimes more than once - to compare things. And what did we discover? They're all con artists! The cheaper ones all feel like they've been built out of sticks and will implode and eat your baby. So you find something you think will work from the mid-priced section that meets all your criteria, see the price and think 'oh, well - that's not too bad.' Then you look closely and realise that the price is the pram frame only, and doesn't include the carrycot. Or the foot muff. Oh, and if you need a car seat, that's an extra £100. Plus the same again for the base. And don't forget your accessory pack - you might not be able to buy matching changing bags or parasols at a later date. By the time you've totted up the grand total, you've spent £750 quid on a flipping buggy without trying. And you still ask yourself what the hell a foot muff is, and do we need one?

In the end we decided to go for a model that was tall enough for The Other Half to push as well as me (it's always tricky, what with him being almost 6"5), would not involve taking out a second mortgage to pay for it, did not feel like it was made of matchsticks, and most importantly - could be collapsed one-handed without me bursting into tears in the middle of the shop crying that it's too heavy and I couldn't do it. It was tough, but we got there in the end - after several long hours beating away salespeople. And it'll be delivered next week so we have plenty of time to work out what a foot muff is actually for. Right, that's the pram sorted. Now for the cot...

Oh, and on the plus side, I was treated to a very nice chocolate milkshake in a diner this afternoon. Think it was for good behaviour, or at least good behaviour in the circumstances.

Wig Wham Bam...

Well, this week I did something I've certainly never done before. No, not swimming with dolphins (although I'd like to one day); not skydiving from a hot air balloon (can't say I've ever really thought about that one) and not even finally sitting through the whole Lord of The Rings Trilogy (I managed half an hour of part one and fell asleep, and have never attempted again). No. This was neither exciting nor daredevil, but it was something I wouldn't care to repeat. Namely, having a domestic with The Other Half over a grey wig in the middle of a fancy dress shop. I kid you not.

On Monday, we went shopping for some bits and pieces (namely a wig for him) for the imminent TedFest party we're attending. Since he is going as old Father Jack, a quick bit of research on t'interweb told us we probably wouldn't get a Father Jack-specific wig, but something along the lines of a mad scientist/Beetlejuice-looking grey wig would do, especially as we could do the finishing touches to the costume ourselves to make everything more Jack-esque. So, off to the shopping centre we trotted to have a trying on session in every costume shop we could find. And by god, it was trying.

Tensions started to fray when we kept having to go backwards and forwards between different shops to compare wigs. Which pretty much all looked (and cost) the same. I'm not sure what The Other Half had a picture of in his head - I'm guessing he was looking for a packet labelled 'Father Jack wig', which I calmly explained several times over we were never going to find and we'd just have to get something as close as we could. Then the argument started when I found a Beetlejuice grey wig - which ok, didn't look exactly like Jack's hair, but we could trim it and it would be ideal. Apparently not good enough, despite the fact that nobody except our friends would see this, and nobody would care anyway if it wasn't an EXACT replica of Jack's mangy locks as they all knew who he was supposed to be going as.

It continued. The Beetlejuice wig just wasn't going to cut it as the picture on the front showed that the scalp of the wig was grey, when it should have been pink. This is when I lost it, there and then in the wig shop with a comedy polystyrene brick in one hand and a giant fake priest's cross in the other. The staff were so bemused by this weird couple shouting at each other over the colour of a wig's scalp that I left the shop and went off to buy a cup off coffee. On my return, I found a sheepish-looking Other Half with a bag in his hand. Turns out, he'd tried on the flamin' wig after I stormed out, only to find that the scalp was in fact pink, not grey. And it did look rather Father Jack-like after all.

I have no words.

As giddy as a kipper (or a big apple?)...

That's me this evening. Even though I'm exhausted, but it's good exhausted. Well, sort of. The shopping-all-weekend kind of exhausted. Normally I hate clothes shopping and trawling round gawd-awful retail outlets, energy-sucking shopping centres and (horror of horror) facing the chavtastic haunt and messiest shop in the world, Primark (actually I couldn't face it after all - I walked past quickly trying to avoid the throngs of teenagers pushing prams. Yes, yes, I know that's a sweeping generalisation but if you've ever had your ankles rammed by a double-buggie-wielding, tracksuit-clad mother in there, you'll know what I mean) - but this time it was for an excellent purpose. I'm going to New York on Wednesday!

And I've left everything to the last minute. As per usual. Thankfully the two day marathon around every shop in the North East (or so it seemed to my poor feet who have now given up on me completely) has paid off and I'm very pleased with my purchases. Even The Other Half, who is a worse shopper than me, has had fruitful expeditions. Although, I've had a blind panic to find my passport (I left it out; I know I did. I came across it a few days ago and said out loud 'Ooh, I'll leave that there where I can see it.' There was even half a ticket in it from the last time I flew. How it came to be wedged under The Box of Stuff in the study I don't know. Perhaps the cat hid it there in protest) and I still don't have any currency sorted out. That will be resolved tomorrow though. Fingers crossed.

So, I have another one and a half days left at work this week, then I'm gone until 13th. Woohoo! It's been almost 2 years since The Other Half and I have had a proper holiday together (i.e. more than 3 days off work in a row; and abroad) and since then I've endured listening to other folk talk about their global adventures with pangs of longing. I'm sure I've already started to get on people's nerves by randomly exclaiming where I'll be and what I'll be doing when they're having their boring weekly meetings; but to be honest, I don't care. Too excited. And that will only quadruple as the hours go by and I (hopefully) tick things off my to-do list at work. (Does anyone else get a little sense of accomplishment when you untick a red flag in your Outlook emails? No? Oh well.)

Look out New York City, I'll be there by Wednesday afternoon. And this time, I'm old enough to drink you dry.